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The noble call of battle is dead, resting fitfully in a grave dug by the hands of poisoners, magicians, and opportunistic Jews. Our kings, the men that claim divine right, who speak of their desire to protect Christ and continue Rome's glory sequester themselves with perfumed merchants and reeking alchemists, dreaming of new nightmares to put on the battlefield.
Once, war was a test of man against man, where those purest of heart, strongest of arm, and bravest in spirit would win.
Now where once shining lance and sword glittered under the sun, ranks arranging themselves, the soft noise of whinnying horses punctuating the air, before the thunder of a charge and the victorious screams of battle; there is clanking ranks of huddled rubber, ranks holding vast lines of sheep gut filled with vile poison- these are the soldiers that replace the flower of chivalry?
My horse, I lost him, my, my fair Cirrus. I fought at the gates of Genoa, when King Louis made a bid to try to unite the land- accursed fish fucking Italians, there we were- lined up. Ready to charge.
They came out. Not even with spears. Just those bloody hoses. The gas...
It's not war anymore. Now it's just men trying to corral each other. Pissing on the Earth, fouling it forever, making the other man trip into mud that burns. Oh my horse, my horse. The mask. Those bloody, fucking, Italians.
There are no more knights. There are no more soldiers. Just rats, each trying to lure the other into their vile traps first.
God help us all.